


Walking On The Sun

by MixterGlacia



Series: RvB Wing Fics [5]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Wings, Chronic Pain, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 04:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12646080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MixterGlacia/pseuds/MixterGlacia
Summary: Ever since the Blues up and left, Sarge was pushing them to the limit. Simmons could only deal with so much before the pain started.





	Walking On The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so rusty at writing these two but they're adorable and it's more Wing AU which is my bread and butter at this point let's be honest.

Simmons had always had bad wings. Just like his shoddy eye-sight. Just like his unsteady stride. Just like his impossibly low self-esteem. Richard Simmons, the hoopoe with every flaw known to man. Probably some that hadn’t even been named yet. 

 

Back to the wings, they fucking sucked. From a technical standpoint, they  _ could  _ fit into his power armor, but...suffice it to say that would do more harm than good. Also the odds of Simmons being shot by someone  _ other _ than his own teammates were slim to none. On the rare days he did wear his armor above his wings, it went down like this: Joints started swelling after thirty minutes. At one hour, they’d go numb. Three hours in, feeling would return in the form of deep slicing pain that lingered long into the night.

 

It didn’t really matter much one way or another because after a full day at their newest base (They’re sitting at fourteen, not that anyone other than Simmons kept track.) the maroon soldier was suffering silently. 

 

The week had been especially brutal. Sarge had been dragging them all over creation in search of a new team of Blue soldiers to fight after the set from Blood Gulch had been spirited away by Carolina. As a result they were being pushed to the brink because the old hawk couldn’t accept not having an enemy to ‘destroy’. 

 

Simmons couldn’t bite back a painful gasp when Sarge had thumped the hoopoe on his shoulder, vowing that they’d find those dagum Blues any day now. The rest of his ‘encouraging’ words fell on deaf ears because the only thing Simmons could focus on was the red-hot agony in his wings. Simmons’ teeth sink into his lip to hold back any other cries.  _ Damn _ it, why did Sarge have to be so prone to punching to when it wasn’t appropriate? 

 

As soon as he was able, Simmons made a break for the new base. He doesn’t take any notice of his surroundings, pulling at clasps and letting his armor loudly crash to the floor in his haste. The wash racks were empty, making the unzipping of kevlar seem louder than it truly was. He hisses as he drags his aching wings out of the garment and kicks it away. Simmons sets the water as hot as it can possibly go before he sinks to the concrete floor, clutching at his knees.

 

The hoopoe tenses at the initial blast of icy water, but relaxes as the temperature gradually rises. Steam begins to blanket the room in a pleasant fog, feathers becoming drenched with the scalding spray. They hang limply at his back, and he sighs lightly.

 

Simmons’ head is  _ just  _ clear enough to hear someone enter the showers and he jolts upright, soaked wings flapping on (horribly painful) instinct. He makes an all too embarrassing noise, unable to muster even the weakest glare at the intruder.

 

“If you’re stealing all the hot water again, I’m going to kick your fucking teeth in.” Grif threatens him, stumbling on Simmons’ abandoned kevlar. His teammate looks down and looks appalled. “What in the actual shit is this, Simmons? What happened to ‘I  _ always _ respect my equipment’? You’re the one that brought a  _ hanger _ with you when you enlisted. Same with the rest of your armor! I actually thought about picking it up for you but…” Grif shrugs one of his (strong, healthy) wings with a snort. “Had to make sure you weren’t dying or something. Only reason I could figure for you not wiping your boots five times at the door.”

 

“Are you planning on bitching all night?” Simmon snipes lamely from the floor, flinching when Grif begins tossing bits of his orange armor haphazardly in the direction of the bench running along the back wall of the washroom. 

 

“Why? Got a special request~?” The red-crested cardinal teases, pulling his helmet free with a faint pop. He’s got that damned grin on his face, moving to chuck the last (most expensive, most fragile) part of his power armor away.

 

“Don’t you dare throw that!!” shrieks the miserable soldier, voice ringing loudly. Grif’s eyes go wide slightly, and he cautiously sets the helmet down.

 

“Christ, fine. Happy now?”

 

Simmons nods, wincing at how it pulls his neck and shoulder muscles. Grif is...holy shit, Grif is actually picking up Simmons’ undersuit and laying it on the bench too instead of filing it in his bloated ‘Not My Problem’ folder. He doesn’t take the same care with his own, which is carelessly shucked onto the floor. Simmons shyly averts his eyes from the infuriating, pudgy, rude, pretty-- whoa hold the phone, what did his brain just think?! Shit he’s probably all red and blushy now, to boot.

 

“Cute little shit.”

 

“ _ ExcuseME?! _ ” Simmons snaps, blush deepening by the second.

 

“Cute. The whole polite and shy ‘looking away to protect my honor’ stuff.” Grif doesn’t bother masking a chuckle.

 

“Well,  _ one _ of us has to b-” Simmons makes a strangled gasp of pain when a wing muscle spasms violently, forcing him to curl in on himself. “ F-Fuck!” 

 

Grif’s expression drops in an instant, and he’s at Simmons’ side in seconds. “Wait you aren’t  _ actually _ hurt, right?” there’s a raw edge of panic in his voice.

 

“S’nothing, I’m fine.” He’s a bad liar at the best of times, let alone whatever this clusterfuck qualifies as.

 

“Stuff the ‘I hate you so much’ act and tell me how to help you.”

 

Simmons makes the mistake of looking at Grif’s face and his heart flips at the genuine concern he finds there. Apparently he takes too long for the cardinal’s tastes because Grif rather snappily adds:

 

“Damn it, stop being so suspicious all the time!”

 

“I’m supposed to trust  _ you?! _ Just laugh already so we can get on with things!” Simmons challenges him reflexively, not wanting to be burned again.

 

“Because I really like you, okay! I don’t want to see you hurt by something I don’t know about!” The orange soldier is the next one to turn pink around the ears, a fact that doesn’t escape Simmons. He’s just too busy processing the information to fully register the implications of it.

 

“Like...friends, like?”

 

“That is the saddest fucking thing that ever fell out of your dumb, pretty face.” Grif retorts, flippant tone not sounding derogatory like it usually does.

 

Simmons is red down to his chest feathers, which fluff up in spite of the shower. “P-Pretty?”

 

There’s a sigh so explosively loud, it’s a small wonder the whole base doesn’t come crashing down. “ _ Yes _ , Simmons. I like your face. Now tell me what’s going on with your god damned wings!” His wide palm smacks the wet floor, snapping Simmons back to reality.

 

“Oh. Uh, it’s just...it’s like how my back is, only worse. They’re always hurting but today was so long that it’s taken its toll on them.” he mutters, thumbs twiddling. “It's been like this since I was little. The doctors said it was permanent deep muscle damage. Sarge has been pushing us too hard, so this is the result.”

 

Grif seems to be searching for some hidden meaning with how deeply he studies Simmons’ face. A beat passes before he smiles like nothing Simmons has ever seen from his teammate before. It’s (sweet, stunning) genuine and open. “Might think about giving it a rest then, Mr. Employee of The Month.” the smile turns sly. “We earned a few lazy days years ago.”

 

“We??” Simmons chuffs.

 

“You heard me. It’ll be like Blood Gulch before Tex showed up.” Grif tests the waters. “Except more making out and shit.”

 

Simmons sputters loudly, stringing an incomprehensible series of sounds together, only stopping after another wave of pain hits.

 

Grif in turn, lightly pushes some hair from the hoopoe’s face. Did he even know he’s why Simmons started to grow it out? Did he still like it long like he said bef- oh.  _ Oh.  _ Grif was  _ kissing  _ him and there Simmons was just sitting there like a doofus. He returns it with too much excitement, too little experience. He accidentally jabs Grif in the eye with his nose. The cardinal sits back amidst a flurry of ‘Oh shit!’ and ‘I’m so sorry!’, holding up a hand to stop the maroon soldier before he can really get going.

 

“Chill. We’re in no rush. Let’s take care of you, then we can keep making out. That work?” He offers.

 

“Yeah.” Simmons enthusiastically agrees. “Yeah, that sounds good.”  


End file.
